


venn diagrams of one circle

by aceofdiamonds



Series: better than firewhiskey [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 18:52:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9085345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceofdiamonds/pseuds/aceofdiamonds
Summary: From the websites she hesitantly consulted and the testimonies from a teammate from Lamlash, it's a quiet island with toy sized schools, beaches that are half rocks-half sand, and a few dozen hills to climb. It sounds like the place they need for the moment. ginny takes harry on holiday on the three year anniversary of the end of the war





	

**Author's Note:**

> because arran is my favourite place in the world and these are my favourite characters and sometimes you have to make things collide. title is from portugal by walk the moon.

 

 

 

It isn’t difficult to organise, really. Quidditch is finished for the season so all it takes it a couple of nudges here and there for Harry to keep his weekend free, a reminder to Ron to keep his mouth shut, and look up things to do when they get there. Hermione always says Ginny isn’t organised but look at her now.

When Friday morning rolls around, Ginny wakes up, climbs out of bed, makes a coffee, and then circles back to the bedroom. Somehow sensing her absence, Harry has stretched to sprawl across the entire bed, his arms reaching out, knee bent. There’s a smudge of bruises decorating his back from a tumble gone wrong at the charity game last week — Ginny reaches out and traces the mark, laughing and pulling away when Harry twitches.

“Wake up, sleepy,” she says, louder, putting her coffee on the bedside table and waiting one, two, three seconds before she grins and then flops onto Harry’s back, waking him with an oof. “Wake up,” she says again, speaking into his ear.

“Fuck off,” he mumbles, pushes his head back under his pillow but Ginny pulls it away — she’s made plans. “Gin,” he whines.

She smacks a kiss on his cheek. “Get up. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

He opens an eye at that, his gaze misty and caught on a dream. “What?”

Ginny adjusts herself so she’s stretched out along Harry’s back. She kisses his shoulder, drops another on his neck. His skin is warm; she burrows closer. “We’re going away for the weekend.”

Harry wriggles until he’s turned on to his back, hands at Ginny’s waist. He blinks up at her blearily but he’s smiling, slowly coming along to what she’s saying. “We are?”

“It’s a surprise,” she says. “Did I mention that?”

“I hate surprises,” he says, to be difficult.

Ginny arches an eyebrow. She knows him so well. “Oh, really? What about last month after you beat the Magpies and you came home to me —“ Harry’s fingers dig into her waist, shrieks of laughter pulled from her. He knows her too, you see.

“Are we celebrating something?” he tries instead.

“Merlin, Harry, can’t we be spontaneous?”

“I love spontaneity as much as I love surprises,” which is true but it’s been a long season, both of them working to the bone, and it’s coming up to May. Ginny feels that at this time of year it’s good to have a distraction, so, that’s what they’re doing.

“Come on, Harry, get dressed — the ferry leaves in an hour and we’ve still to find our way there.”

She clambers off Harry, races him to the shower, and then laughs when he catches what she’s said.

" _Find_ our way there? Gin, you’re the worst at surprises.”

  


.

  


Ginny’s done her research -- peak time for the island is July and August but there are already queues of cars waiting even at the beginning of May as people take advantage of the burst of warm weather.

“Arran,” Harry says, studying the ferry timetable and the board of information. “I’ve never been.”

“Me neither,” Ginny replies cheerfully. From the websites she hesitantly consulted and the testimonies from a teammate from Lamlash, it's a quiet island with toy sized schools, beaches that are half rocks-half sand, and a few dozen hills to climb. It sounds like the place they need for the moment. “Toldja it's an adventure.”

“Did you bring Muggle money for this big adventure?” Harry asks, huffing a laugh when Ginny shrugs, makes excuses about just about to convert some Sickles. He digs into his pocket. “Always carry some.”

“Look at you carrying this adventure,” Ginny crows, boosts his mood. “Where would you be without me?”

“In my bed at home,” he points out, which is true. “Singles or returns?”

“Singles,” she says. “We’ll see what the island gives us.”

  


.

  


Even with the sun in the sky the ferry is choppy. Harry insists they go outside as soon as they’ve finished their rolls and slice and Ginny’s good with a lot of things but she feel that roll churning in her stomach as she climbs the steep steps.

It's worth it for the view -- the sun reaches islands and hills for miles, a visibility that would be perfect for a match, to think of it in Quidditch terms. She points to a lighthouse in the distance and then to a porpoise below them.

Harry’s arm comes around her shoulder. When Ginny looks up at him she recognises that small smile that’s slowly spreading across his face and she knows she has one to match. They'll go to Arran, a place unconnected to the world they know, and they'll soak up the sea, the sun, and each other. Sorry for the sentimentality, but that's Ginny’s want for this week.

  


.

  


They arrive at the tiny hotel in the middle of Lamlash, their rucksacks thumping to the ground. If Ginny were to guess she would say it's family run, the couple behind the desk surely husband and wife from the matching jumpers and close proximity.

“Have you been to Arran before?” the woman asks, sorting out their keys.

“Never,” they say, and she hears their English accents and adjusts her pitch accordingly.

“Oh, well, it's a beautiful island,” she says as her husband tells them they've lived here for coming up on thirty years. “If you're stuck for something to do just let us know."

“I think the plan is to relax,” Harry says, signing his name with a squiggle and a sharp line across the _t_ s of Potter. “Ice cream, swimming,” and that goes down well.

“This is the place for that,” they say, “if you're brave enough,” and Ginny keeps her Gryffindor references to herself and thanks the couple for being so helpful.

“I bet you I get in the sea before you,” she tells him as they turn to go to their room.

Harry shoves her arm. “You're on.”

  


.

  


They dump their bags in their room and then make their way back outside, waving to the owners through the restaurant window.

“This was a good idea,” Harry says after they've bought their ice-cream and have walked along down the grass at the front. “Thanks, Gin.”

“I’ve had a lot of them,” she says, catching a drip of chocolate before it falls. She shrugs, keen to convey why she brought them here without saying it aloud. “It made sense,” and Harry makes a noise like he gets it.

“This must be the furthest you could get from our lives three years ago,” he replies, and there’s something in his voice that Ginny can’t quite work out. She shoots for relief and gratitude but she’s not sure that’s it either.

“That was what I was aiming for,” she agrees, finishing off her cone in three big bites that freeze her brain. “Mhairi’s always going on about the calm magic of the island -- killing two birds with one stone getting her to shut up."

A golden retriever bonds over to them, paws climbing Harry’s legs. Ginny rubs a hand through its fur. It sniffs at her cone until she gives in and offers it out after an exasperated, apologetic nod for the owner.

The dog has runs off, satisfied; there are a dozen more running across the stretch of grass, children playing on the beach and in the play park, and people going in and out of the tiny village shops. This is an island that breathes on its own. “Calm magic,” Ginny says again, leaning against Harry.

“That sounds oxymoronic,” Harry replies, voice soft, but they make a pact there and then to quiet their busy brains and soak up what the island gives them.

  


.

  


They spend the first part of their day wandering around Lamlash, stopping occasionally to talk to dogs, humans, and a bemused witch who recognises Harry and approaches them, apologetic smile on her face and obvious confusion at seeing the Boy Who Lived on Arran. She doesn’t linger, recognising Ginny as well, professing her love for the Harpies and asking shyly for a picture. After Ginny obliges, laughing at the ever-heard comment of rivalry between her and Harry, Harpies and Tornadoes being so close in the league, they turn back from the tennis courts at the end of the town and make their way back along, trying not to laugh at the bemused glances their way -- this young couple with a solitary fan.

After lunch in the same tiny cafe by the pier where they bought their ice-cream, they borrow a map from the owner and scout the island for their next destination.

Ginny traces a finger along the roads, bypassing mountains and streams, miniscule villages with painted houses dotted here and there. “Lochranza,” she says decisively when her finger runs out of green. “Right at the top.”

Harry peers at the map. “What is there to do?” She twists the map so they can both read the description. “Distillery,” he reads. “Could take Ron home a bottle or two -- he’s been sick of Firewhiskey recently.”

“Might as well stock up for everyone while we’re there,” Ginny replies. “It says you can do a tour which includes a complimentary taste.”

“Castle ruins,” Harry adds. “It’ll be just like Hogwarts,” he grins, “you know, from the Muggle perspective.”

“I got your stupid joke,” Ginny groans. “So, Lochranza, that’s decided?”

“Beautiful views from the pier,” the owner chips in as they pay and hand back the map. “And there’s a lovely wee hotel for food.”

“Eating and walking,” Harry says as they push through the door back outside. There’s a strong breeze still, enough to make Ginny pull her jacket around her and pull down her baseball cap. Harry adjusts his hoody, pats his wand in his pocket. “That’s all we’re doing.”

“We’ll make up for it with all the exercise when we get back,” Ginny replies. “Need to keep on top of my game if I want to beat you in the league again,” and she steps out of the way when Harry goes to pull her against him. “Didn’t you hear? It’s embarrassing when one partner is so much more talented than the other.”

She laughs loudly, head thrown back, and Harry takes the opportunity to step into her space. He walks them around the corner from the cafe, tucks them in out of sight, and then he kisses her, clumsy and desperate. All this Quidditch talk -- it riles them up and they lose track of everything else. Ginny responds in kind, rocking onto her tiptoes to kiss Harry hard, biting at his lip and keening when his hands fit at her waist, squeezing gently.

“If only you could do that on the pitch,” she murmurs when they’ve pulled themselves together. He rests his forehead on her own, breathing hard between them. “That would probably be seen as prohibited diversionary tactics, though, and no one wants that.”

“Rita Skeeter would love it,” Harry disagrees. “Us putting our sex life before our careers and taunting those who lost loved ones in the war -- that’s right up Rita’s alley.”

“Hmm. In that case I think I’ll send Rita an owl, spill all the secrets you’ve told me over the years, send over a list of all the places you’ve had your way with me.”

“Romantic,” Harry hums. “Maybe I’ll propose to you up in these hills and that’ll blow all the sex secrets off the front page.”

Ginny chews at her lip, smirks. “I’ve completely lost the point I was making.”

“Something about exercise and winning,” Harry says, but he doesn’t look sure either.

“Get off me then,” she shoves at him until he moves back and then she takes his hand. “And let’s go into your hills and get down on one knee.”

Harry makes a sound in between a laugh and a groan. “I’m honestly not sure if I said that in a warped attempt to win the conversation.”

Ginny shrugs, smiles sweetly. “Well, why don’t you ask me and we’ll see how I feel about it?” And then she turns and their bodies squeeze and they both lose their petty arguments.

  


.

  


For two intelligent war heroes and sports strategists, their minds wander alarmingly quickly when they’re faced with a wandering deer, some boats, an old castle, and a lot of whiskey.

“I would marry you,” Harry says, his arm around Ginny’s shoulders as they leave the distillery and walk down to the pebbly beach. After Mhairi’s warnings of ferry cancellations and rain wild enough to drown you, they’ve been lucky with their weather. “But I don’t think we’re ready for that yet.”

Which is in line with the kinds of thoughts Ginny’s been having. She’s never been one to fantasise about weddings, well, maybe once or twice when she was eight and in infatuation with the man beside her, but she thinks that she wouldn’t mind a ring around her finger and a kid or two with black hair and freckles. But not right now -- not when they’re both at the top of their game, their respective teams constantly dominating the league, and with rumours of Ginny stepping into Captain in the next year or so. Not when the Weasleys are expanding at a rate too quick to keep up with and Teddy sometimes gets a look on his face when he’s surrounded by ginger heads and the same surname, different from his own. A lot has changed in three years but they’re both still growing, figuring things out.

So while they’re both saying no, they’re saying no, not right now, but they enjoy having the almost certainty in their future.  

  


.

  


This is supposed to be a relaxing holiday but they get antsy fast. Ginny scoops up a handful of leaflets in the lobby and they spread them out on their bed, choose the next strand of their adventure.

“Blackwaterfoot,” Harry reads, raised on one elbow, his feet in Ginny’s lap. “There’s a nice beach here, a restaurant, and a good walk to the King’s Cave.”

“That’s Robert the Bruce’s cave,” Ginny says, the information coming to her automatically.

“A cave fit for a king,” Harry surmises, predictably. “Want to go?”

And the sun is shining across the water and something is unsettled and jumpy within Ginny so she nods, pushes Harry’s feet off of her and changes into shorts and a t-shirt. She sticks her wand in her back pocket, ready for anything.  

“Mad-Eye told me off for doing that,” Harry says, as he does the same. He throws the sun tan lotion at her, gestures impatiently when she refuses. “You’re ginger, Ginny. That’s asking for it.”

“Okay, Mr Sun,” she replies, slathering it over her face then passes the bottle back. “You too, then, just cause you’re tanned doesn’t make you safe.”

Harry laughs but obeys. He slings his rucksack on his back, checks the room for anything they’re missing, then holds out a hand. “Let’s go.”

  


.

  


The leaflet didn’t lie. The tide is out so the sand stretches on for as far as Ginny can see, dusty gold and perfect. A girl builds an elaborate sandcastle beside them -- Ginny risks magic to steady it from toppling as her brother stomps over, destruction on his face. Ginny laughs at his face when his foot fails to fell the structure as the girl looks on in amazement. She winks at her.

“Make me a sandcastle, will you please?” Ginny asks Harry. Harry who’s unearthed a book from his bag and is pretending to read it as he tries not to fall asleep.

“Make your own,” he mumbles, turns three pages at once.

“I was never any good at them,” she sighs, a talent lost by the Burrow's distance from the sea. “Never had the practice.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “And I did?” But he raises onto his knees, scans the area for materials before settling for his hands and digging into the sand. He creates a large round mound, digs a makeshift moat and a tiny bridge. He nods in satisfaction. “Not bad,” he says.

Ginny snakes an arm around his neck, kisses his cheek. The misshapen blob of sand is endearing -- it’s somehow exactly what she asked for. They’re good like that. “Fit for a king.”

“There’s a lot of that around here,” Harry replies. He kisses her, groans when his hand moves and crumbles his creation. He pulls back, peers at her, and then darts in and kisses her nose. “You’re burning.”

Ginny swats at his arm. “Fine,” she sighs, “if you really want me to win our bet,” and before he can blink she gets to her feet and sprints towards the sea, toes sinking into the sand before she reaches the stretch touched by waves. She hesitates for half a second, remembering the temperature warning from the woman at the hotel, before hoisting seven years of Scottish winters on her back and splashing in, a gasp sneaking out at the cold.

“I won!” she yells triumphantly to a Harry barging into the water behind her. He keeps going, knocking her off her feet into the shallows, and then tugs her into deeper water. His arm is around her waist which is perfect for exploitation -- twisting, Ginny manages to dunk him under, catching his glasses for him when they fall in his struggle to the surface. There’s seaweed everywhere they look and Ginny’s sure there are several crabs scuttling across her feet but she pulls at Harry to keep going until she’s on her tiptoes and he towers above her.

Not one to leave an opportunity hanging, Ginny slings her arms around Harry’s neck and holds on, her legs fitting around his waist. On cue, Harry’s hands cup her arse, keep her from falling back in.

Her teeth are chattering when she repeats her victory but the more submerged they get, the warmer they feel. “Where’s my victory kiss?” she crows, taking it for herself when Harry takes too long. He tastes salty, wet, and her fingers get tangled in his damp hair. “Although,” she murmurs, pulling away. “This is fucking freezing -- I deserve a lot more than a kiss for my troubles.”

“Later,” Harry promises. He kisses her neck as insurance. “But I definitely need something in return.”

“I brought you to this beautiful island,” she says, sweeps a hand across the sea. In early May the beach is all but deserted apart from dedicated dog-walkers and the kids with the sandcastle. Maybe they should come back again later in the summer. “I bring a smile to your face every single day,” she ploughs on, smirking when Harry sticks his tongue out at that. See? See how good they are for each other. Merlin, Ginny wonders what she would do for them if everything hadn’t slotted back together. Not to sound overly romantic like those Celestina Warbeck songs, but she thinks she might move a mountain or two to guarantee the permanency of Harry in her life.

“What would I do without you, Gin?” Harry says, smirk in place but question somewhat sincere.

“Let’s not think about that,” she says, kissing him again.

After they’ve surpassed their bodies’ limits in the water they make their way back to their towels and destroyed sandcastle and doze in the sun, happy and tired.

  


.

  


The walk to the King’s Cave is quiet -- the few people they pass nod their greetings and make cheerful comments about taking the rocky beach path on the way there, lesson learned, and Ginny and Harry make a note to try that on the return. Ginny takes Harry’s hand, swinging them between them as they duck under low-hanging branches and skirt around wayward birds. By the time they reach it, the area is deserted. Ginny jumps down onto the rocky beach, makes her way inside the largest of the openings while Harry reads the sign detailing the legend of Robert the Bruce and his spider, the motivation for his triumph over the English.

“Robert the Bruce was a Gryffindor, did you know that?” Ginny tells him, finding a place to climb up, her legs swinging.

“No,” Harry says, in a tone Ginny can imagine Hermione’s heard a lot over the years. He settles in beside her. “How did _you_ know that?”

“I read,” she replies, sniffing, and dropping it under Harry’s look. “After first year I wanted to know everything about the school so I turned to --”

“Hogwarts: A History,” Harry finishes. “Does Hermione know?”

Ginny climbs over another rock for a better view of the rocks closer to the sea. “No,” and she points a finger for good measure. “And don't tell her.”

“What else did you learn?” Harry asks, curious.

“When Hogwarts was created Scotland and England were still separate nations and would be for the next six hundred years. Makes you wonder how the rest of the founders felt about setting up in Ravenclaw’s homeland and then the English having to send their kids to a school in enemy territory.”

“It’s always odd putting wizard history into Muggles’,” Harry agrees.

Ginny was always in the minority that secretly loved History of Magic, checking out books after Binns droned on about something that sounded interesting but couldn’t fight the monotony of his speeches to hear more about at the time. “If the Statute of Secrecy wasn’t created the country could be completely different.”

“And your dad wouldn’t have a job,” Harry points out, which is true.

“Maybe we’d have never met,” Ginny throws out.

“There’s a thought,” Harry replies, and when she looks at him he’s frowning like he’s imagining what that might be like. Ginny scoots closer to him, rests her head on his shoulder, and they forget about parallel worlds without Dark Lords and secret Ministries and fighting to the death. “This cave is nice for enhancing nationalism,” he says, changing the subject.

“I can see why Robert picked it,” Ginny agrees. “Great views,” which is forty per cent of Arran’s success as a destination -- everyone loves standing on the edge of the sea and looking out across the horizon, islands and curves of the mainland dotting the postcard-worthy view. “I would fight for my country if I saw something like this.”

They have experience of that kind of talk and Ginny settles with the knowledge that they’re both important factors in each others lives, in war and peace and everything in between. They sit in the cave that birthed the legend of the brave king who fought the English and won and they make comparisons within their heads of their victory against the dark, because it’s been three years, it’s still raw enough that they fit it into every part of their lives.

“If you tell me Edward II was a Slytherin that makes history a bit neat, doesn’t it?”

“I never read about him,” Ginny sighs. “In second year I was looking for happy stories -- I ignored everything else.”

“I knew you never read the whole book,” Harry says lightly as he squeezes her hand. He’s good at the subtle comfort.

  
  


.

  
  


They go along to the local pub for dinner and join in the pub quiz because they can’t be arsed moving and they’re both hugely competitive. They end up guessing most of their answers, some of them turning out to be right, most of them not, and put house elves, goblins, Hagrid, and spells, down for half the rest, which leads to apologetic smiles as they exchange their sheets to be marked with the group next to them. They come last, predictably, but the alcohol soothes the pain and they leave the pub singing, congratulating the winners over the crowd.

“I’m gonna beat your bet,” Harry announces as they walk back to the hotel. He turns abruptly and heads towards the sea and Ginny has a wild second of panic at seeing him walk confidently to the water, unnecessary memories of sacrifices and stones swimming in her head. “I’m going into the sea -- in the dark,” he says.

As it’s May and Scottish days are long in the summer it’s not completely dark yet even at ten but Ginny bounds after him, pulling her hoodie over her head as she goes. Sensing her catching up Harry does away with his shoes, socks, and jeans, his t-shirt landing in a pile of seaweed. Aware of the countless dangers of alcohol and water, Ginny takes precautions by encasing them in Warming Charms, the logic being that they hopefully won’t freeze to death if nothing else.  

Harry swears loudly when his feet touch the water. “Fuck,” he yelps again when Ginny clambers onto his back. There’s a thin line between bravery and stupidity. “You’re telling me,” he moans and she realises she’s said this piece of wisdom out loud. “Bloody hate Scotland.”

“Don’t worry,” Ginny soothes, patting his cheek blindly. “You whipping your top off and falling out of your jeans was stunningly beautiful.”

“I might drop you,” Harry warns, his hands tightening on her thighs. “Can we please go to bed now?”

“Lead the way, Buckbeak,” Ginny directs, pointing forward with her wand. Harry plods across the sand, muttering about frozen toes and tents in forests and Ginny wordlessly Summons their clothes into her hands as he goes.

They argue outside the hotel door as to whether they should Apparate straight to their room, their brief spell in the water having sobered them up considerably, or if they should summon the effort to redress and show face in the lobby to their friendly if slightly overbearing hosts.

The latter wins and they fumble to get dressed, wishing they had had the foresight to cast a Disillusionment Charm before the whole ordeal, but spontaneity has its consequences, as Harry learns when he strolls into the hotel, waves goodnight to the couple behind the desk, and realises on the stairs that he has Ginny’s tank top on as Ginny chokes on laughter behind him.

“I love you, Harry,” she declares once they’ve reached their room. “The country knows only of your heroics but I get to witness all the other parts of you and for that I’m eternally grateful.”

Harry grins at her. He flops onto the bed, his hand reaching out at the last second and dragging Ginny with him so she lands on top of him. They bounce and Ginny ends up with her nose in his ear, giggles erupting out of her again. His hand is flat on her back, holding her steady, but she can feel him shaking. “I love you too, Ginny,” he says, breathing hard between fits of laughter.

  


.

  


On the morning of their last day they sleep in until they're woken by the cleaner at the door to whom they apologize and ask that they come back later before falling back into bed and having sleepy sex that sets Ginny’s mood up for the day perfectly.

“Big plans for today?” they’re asked when they make it downstairs only to find they’ve missed breakfast and order sandwiches and chips instead.

“Do you have any suggestions?” Ginny asks, an urge to be extra polite after their entrance last night. “We don’t have a car so we’re limited.”

“There’s a bus into Brodick every half hour,” they’re told. “They have some lovely shops and it’s a nice walk to the castle if you fancy a wee bit of history.”

Which sounds good because, “Oh, we need to get Victoire a birthday present,” Ginny remembers suddenly. “Niece,” her and Harry both say to the frown at the French name and Ginny’s pasty skin. She almost goes to explain Fleur’s Veela roots then realises who she’s talking to.

They’re handed a bus schedule which they tuck into their pockets and after lunch they walk down the road, round the corner, and then clasp hands and Apparate, pretty shops and ferry terminals in their head.

The gift-shops are almost unbearably cute with young people who have lived on the island their whole life standing behind the counter, working on their craft and offering advice as Ginny and Harry wander around the shop and try not to break anything. They find a picture book for Victoire and a toy that’s going to drive everyone mad within the first hour but isn’t that what aunties and uncles are for?

On the advice of their hosts they follow the winding path to the castle along the beach and through a wooded area where they pay their entrance fee and then explore the grounds. There are probably more facts to be learned in this historical building but instead they occupy themselves by searching for the Bogles, small stone creatures hidden in each room, and pretending not to notice the House Elf creeping about the abandoned kitchen, obviously not meant to be there and looking terrified at being discovered. After a whispered conversation they approach her cautiously and tell her Hogwarts are always looking for elves without work and that they know first-hand that they’re treated as well as elves can be, even more so after their contribution to the Battle of Hogwarts. The elf squeaks a thanks after they assure her it’s completely safe and to slip in that Ginny Weasley and Harry Potter sent her if she’s scared and then she Disapparates with a _crack_.

“You never know what you’re going to find once you learn about magic,” Harry says after they’ve left the kitchen and have been suitably scared by the dummy in the dungeon.

And Ginny’s never known a life without magic, not with six unruly brothers and a house that runs on spells, but she gets what Harry’s saying. Magic creeps into all the nook and crannies where you never would have considered it to be. Muggles will have studied the Scottish Wars of Independence without knowing about the power behind Robert the Bruce or learned about the Second World War without the interference and orchestration of Grindelwald.

“I hope she’s okay,” she says as they head back outside and down the steps to the walled gardens. “McGonagall will take her in.”

“Dobby’ll look after her,” Harry assures her. “He’s very friendly.”

Which is true to the point of being dangerous but Ginny leaves it. They pass an hour in the gardens before Apparating straight back to their hotel bed and napping. Ginny likes to think she’s a fit person but there’s something about being out in the fresh air and soaking up the utter calmness that inhibits the island that knocks her equilibrium and tires her out.

Harry’s face is pushed into her chest when she wakes up a while later. She cards her hand through his hair, kisses his forehead, and then winks and kisses him properly when he wakes up. There are other benefits of having nothing to do all day and Ginny likes to make the most of these rare times. She maneuvers them so she’s straddling Harry, fumbles for a wand to Vanish their clothes, and then she leans down and kisses Harry, drags them both further into their temporary sphere of seclusion.

  


.

  


Three years and two weeks after the war ended and their world changed Ginny and Harry are sitting in a tiny cafe in Lamlash eating ice-cream. This afternoon their biggest concern is where to go for dinner and whether it's warm enough to swim in the sea. After they finish their ice-cream they'll walk along the pier, watch the people jumping off the end, and though they might peer over and think about it, for two people who spend their lives in the sky, they draw the line there. Their lives pause here, on this island, for just a few days. Their lives aren’t tinged with terror and loss anymore but it’s important to take the time out to focus on each other and forget that their other lives exist for a little while.

With her knee pressed against Harry’s, stealing licks of his ice-cream and fending off his retaliations, Ginny silently thanks Mhairi for gushing about Arran and then she thanks the paths that led them here to have the luxury to take-off for the weekend and immerse themselves in the quiet magic and power on this island off the west coast of Scotland.

“Let’s say I ask you to marry me one day,” Harry pipes up suddenly, “and you happen to say yes -- let’s do it here, okay?”

Ginny hums her agreement, the decision all too easy when she's feeling as content as she is. "I can live with that," she says, which is what they're aiming for. "Arran and you," her mouth runs on with. "What else could I need?" 

And Harry smiles, that big romantic heart of his soaring, and kisses her forehead. "That's the beauty of it, see? Something for everyone," and Ginny does see because she knows Harry's head as well as she knows her own and they're pretty well-matched for each other.

 

 

 


End file.
